Cougars and Foxes: A universe in balance.

Ah, how perfectly we have evolved here in the dating jungle! Sexy women, forty plus, who glow from reigniting the orgasm fire after many years of sexual neglect at the hands (and fingers and tongues) of their recent exes. Silver foxes, fifty plus, who scoop up neglected kittens and nurse them back to emotional health after many years of feeling more like mothers with their exes than lovers.

It's all good.

If you're one of these recently re-energized cougars, embrace your roll (sic) and present no apologies. When you net one of those cubs, you should enjoy:

• A harder body, penis included.
• Repeat performances--hourly as opposed to weekly.
• PDA
• Sex in strange, but wonderful places including cars, kitchens, and tents.
• The secret envy of your friends while they lie and criticize.
• One fewer mass of humanity in the form of a large hairball on the sofa, which is as difficult to remove as lint from Velcro.
• A kitchen aid who will not only help you cook and wash dishes, he'll take you from behind while doing so.
• Someone with a mind vacant enough that he can be trained.
• Something nice to look at while vacationing as opposed to a furry, sunburned belly under a smelly cigar and silly bucket hat.
• Sex at times of the month of little concern to him.
• Someone in briefs who doesn't resemble grilled sausage.
• Home-field advantage as he's probably not going to want you to hang with his three roommates, who will all get drunk, pick on him, and try to have sex with you.

If you're a creeper, out to reminisce about days of firmer skin and natural lubrication, employ all methods necessary to net a kitten. Sure, it will require an investment, but face it, we pay either way--it's simply a matter of how far in advance of services rendered. Silver foxes can use the illusion of wealth, humor, and their fatherly maturity to trap her. Once the kitten is in the den, you should enjoy:

• Nipples that still point northeasterly.
• The subtle scent of lilacs as opposed to buttery chardonnay and cigarettes.
• Oral pleasure graciously provided as it has yet to become a displeasure.
• Waking up in the morning sun next to a princess instead of Nosferatu.
• A woman who comes to your place with one tiny bag instead of a pile of Samsonite.
• Someone prepared and ready to leave for the event, who won't make you late and scream at you for rushing her.
• Meeting other kittens--her friends--who will see you as a wise elder and often seek your guidance as opposed to the cougar's friends who will bombard you with snarkasm.
• A student who is eager to try new positions, locations, and (if you're lucky) inputs.
• A sexual history that won't make you cringe.
• Jealous buddies as you show the topless photos she sent you, which you promised not to show anyone.
• Someone untainted by child rearing.
• Someone who will not only consider, but will enjoy and appreciate being treated to inexpensive delights at lower-class establishments as opposed to wrinkling her nose and complaining about the wine list and lack of gluten-free options.

See? Nature has a mighty fine way of leveling the field, doesn't it?

Checking You Out

The club featured a parade of beauties last night. I was there with the usual suspects, cheering and throwing confetti. I decided to try something new: a direct approach method. Well, it was a bit angular because I gained entrance by staring at a prospect’s feet.

Paranoia breeds curiosity.

“Why are you staring at my feet?”

“Oh, I was checking if you have a bitch toe.”

“A what?”

“Bitch toe. If your index toe is longer than your thumb toe, you might be a meanie.”

“That’s silly.”

“Well, you don’t have one so you’re off the hook. I bet you’re nice.”

“I am, but don’t you think it’s odd to walk around staring at people’s feet?”

“Fine. I’m going to stare at knees now.”

“Women prefer it when you look into their eyes.”

“I see. Wow, what big eyes you have.”

“Look, Wolfman Jackass, saying someone’s eyes are big is not a compliment.”

“You would prefer?”

“How about lovely, addictive, or sexy?”

“OK, you have lovely eyes.”

“Unoriginal.”

“Fine. Your eyes are like glistening pebbles in a clear stream of loveliness.”

“Better. I’m going to help my friend carry our drinks back from the bar. Be right back.”

“I am going to check you out when you turn around. Just sayin’.”

“You can’t warn a person about that. Now I’m all paranoid.”

“Don’t be paranoid. I like what I see so I want to see more.”

“Thank you, but it’s borderline creepy when you say it.”

“Hey, what can I say? I’m an open book—yellowing with dog ears and a few pages missing, ideal for potty reading.”

She backed away to prevent my staring at her butt.

I never understand why women feel uncomfortable when men check them out. Women spend so much time on hair, skin, and clothing; you’d think they’d be disappointed if every man looked past or around them. I adore women and I am highly attracted to them. I try not to be too creepy, but when I find myself staring at my beer bottle, I feel creepier.

Here’s what I have found: Women feel uncomfortable when certain men check them out. The certain men I am referring to are ones who are not mating options. The other exception is the gay friend. If the target is attracted to the voyeur, she’s flattered. If not, she’s overcome by heebie-jeebies.

“You know, it’s unsafe to walk backwards in a crowded bar.”

“You were going to check out my butt.”

“I’m still going to. In fact, I already have and I give it high marks.”

“Can’t you just be a normal guy and ask me if I come here often?”

“Nope. Lift your hair; let me see your neck.”

“Now you’re a vampire?”

“I’m not going to bite you, I mean, unless you’re into that sort of thing.”

“Fine, I’ll play along. So, what do you do?”

“Nibble necks and write books.”

“Really? What kind?”

“Creamy, hairless ones that tickle when I kiss them.”

“What kind of books, you nut?”

“Oh, just silly books about dating struggles.”

“That explains it.”

“Can I sniff your wrist now?”